CORNERS

All but saints

and hermits

mean to paint

themselves

toward an exit

leaving a

pleasant ocean

of azure or jonquil

ending neatly

at the doorsill.

But sometimes

something happens:

a minor dislocation

by which the doors

and windows

undergo a

small rotation

to the left a little

—but repeatedly.

It isn’t

obvious immediately.

Only toward evening

and from the

farthest corners

of the houses

of the painters

comes a chorus

of individual keening

as of kenneled dogs

someone is mistreating.